


hymn for the missing

by bountifulsilences



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicide Attempt, personally i think its happy??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bountifulsilences/pseuds/bountifulsilences
Summary: "You weren't in control of what you did, why can't you see that? Hydra brainwashed you, they forced you to do it, don't carry their sins on your shoulder," Steve beseeched."I still did it."or, the one where confronting Bucky when they finally meet involves a lot more tears and pain than Steve could've ever guessed.





	hymn for the missing

**Author's Note:**

> yes, another repost. i'm just done with how much fanfic I've truly written?? lol
> 
> i wrote this a year ago when i was heavily depressed soo...this is extreme. but if you're looking for angst you're welcome! I'm acc proud of this, which is new for me cause i hate my writing, but this character study is pretty decent. if you're into this sort of thing that is. 
> 
> it was inspired by fanart i saw on tumblr. I'm gonna search for it later and add a link directing you to it. It's incredible but the content is triggering so please decide wisely. same goes for this fic, if you're triggered easily then...perhaps give it a miss? your health is more important. also if you feel something needs to be tagged then let me know, i'll add it!
> 
> all mistakes are my own but i hope you enjoy it anyway! :)
> 
> song i listened to while writing this: Hymn For The Missing by Red. (seriously give the song a listen, it's heartbreaking and goes so well with this fic and stucky in general)

The black quilt submerging the room in darkness was stifling, Bucky- the Winter Soldier- whoever he was, found it snaking around his throat, keeping him in a choke hold. Trying not to let it squeeze, he gathered his crumbling sanity, failing to keep it in his grasp, and collapsed on the dining table, a lone wooden surface surrounded by four chairs. Neither had been used apart from this instance.

Littering his body were wounds, injuries sustained from his own hands; the callous fingers controlled knives and guns which never stopped firing. Never stopped penetrating. It seemed all he was capable of anymore was hurting. Abolishing. Suffering.

From where it was wedged in his pocket, one of his many pistols burned. Like hot coal it ravaged his combat trouser, tempting him to extract it, put it on the table so it no longer pained him. What could he do if not oblige? Digging a hand into his pocket, he retrieved the malicious weapon, hollow eyes following his arm to deposit it before him.

A gift. A promise.

He was in a warehouse, some place in Northern Russia, abandoned and derelict. Despite it being void of life, he heard melancholic echoes glide through the air, inducing shivers that spread across his body; the howls were victims that never left. He wasn't alive. Not anymore. So, an end would terminate the ghost, not him. He'd finally join his tormentors and would abscond the painful recovery.

He didn't care who he was, not anymore. Sergeant Barnes, a fallen Commando, or Bucky Barnes, a loving brother and caring friend. They meant nothing to him. Despite his ruminations over books and texts, he couldn't establish any meaningful connection to the words he read, and maybe, it wasn't worth it.

Supposedly, the fall killed him, in the Alps. A descend so dreary, it squeezed the air out of his lungs, and tore his limbs into two. That was when the Winter Soldier was conceived. Forged in ill intent and malevolence, the Soviets were vigilant and assertive. They eliminated the previous host, ensuring he’d never return. Reviving the dead would never be successful. Bucky Barnes was no more. So, what was his purpose now?

Hydra was searching for him, keen to force him to succumb to the numbness of captivity once more and finish his mission. Kill Captain America. But how could he kill a man who had spent the last four months tailing him? Behind Steve Rogers was a scarlet veil composed of the blood of Hydra, who left no survivors whilst searching for the shell of his old friend. It was ruthless. He couldn't understand it.

On the helicarrier, he was content with dying in his hands, provoked him to finish the mission. But, 'till the end of the line', it meant something. An indecipherable promise or code which disembodied his programming, tearing open the casket that was the Winter Soldier, revealing an empty coffin. Who was the man he claimed he was?

Such questions couldn't be answered, and perhaps they never would be. Some mysteries died with Bucky Barnes, and some at the birth of the weapon. So, he asked himself, is it worth it? All the trouble of reconciling with his broken past if not all of it remained. Information was tangible, it could be altered and fed through a tube, pumping the recipient of false notions and beliefs.

What convinced him that all he read in museums, textbooks, movies, was correct? It could be exaggerated. It could fake. In fact, it could all be nothing but fabrications, and he could not risk ingesting anymore lies. Hydra had supplied him with plenty, he was full for a lifetime.

The Solider may not have been able to think for himself, but he was taught that he was doing God's work. He posed as a saviour for mankind, eradicating threats and objections to Hydra's agenda. However, they were wrong. Now, months- years- decades later he knew that they were just spoon-fed lies that existed to combat any moral dissent which may spawn during a mission. He was never a soldier of God. He was the Devils slave.

But, he could be. He could pose as a saviour, for the first and last time, and all he had to do was encapsulate the gun into his hand. The rest would occur from muscle memory. It was a fool proof, efficient plan to annihilate an assassin, allow the Sergeant to be the martyr he was, and the small kid from Brooklyn, who never wanted to join the God forsaken war in the first place, he would finally attain freedom.

All he had to do was grab the gun. End the misery. Do it.

Hand spasming, his fingers wrapped around the metal weapon, their hold tight yet aimless. Breathing deeply, he leaned forward, inclining towards the object, yet maintained some distance. The metal arm swung onto the table, sprawling across it in front of him, planted itself as an obstacle. Nothing would prevent him from executing the plan when the time arrived. Not even himself.

Another howl drifted through the corridors of the abandoned warehouse, calling for justice and fairness. Allowing the Winter Solider to flee was condemning them, and they deserved equity. The righteousness came forth as his demise, something they'd be granted eventually. He had stopped running. It was time to accept the adamant blood staining his hands and end his reign of terror.

There was nothing for him to live for, no reason to survive any longer. Steven Grant Rogers, a man out of his time, he could have been an incentive to continue, endure the burdens on his chest. But with such tainted actions to his name, he couldn't expect anything from a public figure.

Forgiveness, pardoning, exemption- they meant nothing for him. He slaughtered. He killed. He murdered. Without an ounce of remorse to salvage any humanity in him. He was a monster. Undeserving of anything the Captain could and would offer. The virtuous man could not besmirch his reputation, his beliefs and morals, for him. Not when he wasn't worthy of them.

In the end, maybe he was meant for splattered blood because what the Alps couldn't finish, he would today. His brains and blood would coat the concrete floor, and engrave their infected legacy into the weary wood.

He and Steve, they weren't designed to embody a vow so sincere: "till the end of the line." That was never for them, apparently. But, if somehow, someway, it was, and that was their forever, then regretfully he had to cut it short. It was time for him to cut ties with the past and present, to welcome his non-existent future.  

Steve, a friend, a companion, a guarantee. Followed him unintentionally into the future, found him through mere chance, and searches for him till date. He didn't deserve such heartache, never had and never would. He may not remember the man, and won't get the chance to, but it was reassurance that come rain or shine, there was a constant somewhere for him. And that was Steve.

Steve, who he'd never see again. Steve, who he didn't know. Steve, who trusted a weapon and proved to him that some humanity remained. He would never find him, and it stung but not enough for him to alter his decision. He was a mess, it was easier this way.

His chest rested on the edge of the of the table, letting it support his entire body weight. Slowly, almost sluggish, the hand controlling the gun lost control of its finger, and one curled around the trigger, enforcing the certainty of what was to come. He would pull it.

Distantly, he heard a slam, far, far, away, that he only noticed because of his training. The ghosts haunting him were banging doors, slamming chairs and tables, wreaking as much havoc as they could in his brain. His vacant eyes were fixed on the pistol, but when they fluttered close, to blink, he squeezed them to remind himself he was still there, not gone yet.

When they opened, the barrel was facing him, close enough to get a clean shot of his heart if he removed the safety. He was half tempted to pull it. But he didn't, prompting a sigh instead. Trapped in the blackness, he wondered, what was he waiting for?

Remembrance? A sudden moment of clarity wherein he recalled all his lost memories and was suddenly Bucky Barnes, not an unidentified ghost? It never came. Of course it wouldn't, wish fulfilment had neglected him entirely, there was nothing left for it to proffer. Now, it was death, and death alone.

A cool breeze weaved around his body, constricting his chest so his lungs were deprived of air, but it was a comforting reminder, that soon he wouldn't be able to inhale or exhale. All that would be left, the only proof of his existence, would be a decomposed cadaver that no one would discover. Apart from Widow, she seemed competent. She may locate the carcass, following the scent of death and decay, and give Steve something to bury this time.

The stone in the Brooklyn graveyard, decorated with his name situated next to his mothers would finally be used. It would be filled. There would finally be a body. But that would rely completely upon the Widow. She would have to find him for that to happen. If Steve requested it, she would. Bucky knew she loved Steve.

Eventually, his body slumped sliding off the table, his head replacing the edge it just parted, and the clothed metal arm obscured his face, hiding his stitched, useless mouth. Gazing emptily at the brown surface, the metal hand held onto the edge of the table to his right, whilst his flesh hand operated on its own accord. Contorting the gun, his thumb played idly with the trigger, and the barrel: he rested his forehead against it.

It was cold against his scorching skin, and he supressed the shudder threatening to break free. His hair splayed on either side of him, trying to prohibit any more noise from invading his ears, but despite the weak barrier, he could hear the victims of his gruesome past chant:

"Do it. Do it. Do it."

His index finger played with safety. All it took was two clicks, remove the safety, pull the trigger, and enclosed in the darkness his death would occur peacefully. Head descending onto the wood, blood would ooze from the single gunshot wound and matte his hair, seep into the table, dripping as a waterfall onto the floor. And his position would be one of submission, he was surrendering after decades sinning.

Perhaps it wouldn't be enough, after all, his demise wouldn't revive those whose life he had stolen, nor would it be easy for Steve, who would have to grieve for the loss of a man resembling his best friend twice. But the beauty of life was, those who deserved it, could move on. They were granted access to healing and recovery.

He was not, rightfully so, this was the ultimate fall. There were no chances of survival from a gun wound so severe, he'd be bestowed with the finality of death. Nothing would be able to save him. It was a therapeutic thought.

His blank stare persisted, thoughts whirling around his head, but soon they began to ease. Lose their ferocity and intensity, simmering into distant intrusions that he could ignore easily, they weren't bothering him anymore. Likewise, his victims quietened, preparing for the final performance of the Soldiers life, the moment where justice was served.

Heart calm and consistent (not for long now), his finger touched the safety without relenting. The next time his finger would lift from its position, it would be lifeless, he'd ensure it. Applying more pressure onto tip of his gun, his eyes never strayed from where they were fixated, controlled and blank.

Then, clicking off the safety, his thumb pushed against the trigger just slightly before the only entrance to the room slammed open, door breaking off its hinges and falling onto the floor. He didn't startle, nothing could jostle him with a gun pointed at himself, but his thumb released slowly the bullet nestled back into the clip.

From behind, he heard an astonished voice whisper, "Jesus Christ." Advancing towards him, it continued, shining a flashlight on the ground. "Cap! I think you need to see this."

Following those words was the heavy sound of footsteps, they pounded against the floor as Captain America ran. Unwavering from his position, he tracked them both using just his ears, and he heard the moment Steve entered, carrying a light of his own, and he breathed, "Sam, what is-"

There was silence.

"What the- Bucky, what are you doing?" Steve asked incredulously, staggering towards him, shield and flashlight slipping out of his loose fingers. The light extinguished.

When they came too close, he hid his iris from Sam’s- was it? watchful light, and said in a croaky voice, "don't come any closer."

They faltered in their paths. Audible breaths, that didn't belong to him, faded into anguished silence as neither intruders spoke. Their scent was soaked in fear and worry.

"What are you doing?" Steve questioned again, tone so hopeless and terrified. It seemed to disguise his intimidating physique, resembling that of a smaller, thinner man. Covered in aches and ailments, yet with so much fire and livelihood.

"I'm doing what the Alps failed to do," he explained, eyes sealed, voice definite and unwavering.

"Barnes, I don't know what you're thinking right now, but I'm sure it ain't true. Put the gun down and let's talk, we can do this together," the second voice, Sam promised.

"Sam's right Buck, this doesn't have to end like this, please. Just put the gun down, and let's talk. Let's do this together," Steve pleaded, and there it was again, the name of the dead.

Didn't they see? He was no longer Bucky Barnes, nor was he the Sergeant or the Soldier, he was no one. Nothing. Losing Stev, stripped him the title of Bucky, falling from the train stripped him the title of Sergeant, and absconding Hydra had stripped him the title of the Winter Soldier. There was no one left for him to be. 

"He didn't survive the train fall."

If they were to bury him in Barnes' grave, then perhaps that would be an invasion, an identity theft. But a name is a name, regardless of what. He'd like to have one, if he could.

"Fine, you don't have a name, I'll take it. But I won't take that gun you've got pointed at yourself, so please, put it down," the man implored, sounding so young and desperate. It wounded him for some reason.

"I'm sorry Steve, I'm sure you meant a lot to him, but," he said earnestly, but I'm not him.

"I don't care, okay? You could be anyone on the planet right now and it wouldn't make a difference to me. I just can't stand by when you've- when you plan on-"

"Cap," Sam interjected softly, "deep breaths, yeah? You've got this."

He felt his own throat tighten. Why did Steve impact him so much? Why wouldn't his memories return?

"I know, I'm being selfish Bucky. And I know you don't need that right now. Say the word- say the word and I'll stop looking for you and following you, but I can't do that if you don't promise you won't go through with this. I just can't," Steve said, thick and heavy, a confession saying so much more than he could decrypt.

"I'm not worth this Steve," he confessed, eyes squinting and pressing his gun harder against his skin. "I've killed so many innocent people, I can’t count them on my fingers. I don't know who I am, or who anyone is, and I'm tired of running."

"We can do this together Bucky, I promise just say the word and we will. Stark- Tony knows some of the best therapists in New York, I can get us a home anywhere you want and Hydra will never find you. You won't have to run anymore."  

Shaking his head, he chuckled softly, humourless. "It's not that easy. I wish it was, but it isn't. I'm not the man you want me to be."

"I don't want you to be anyone but you," Steve insisted in a low, helpless voice. "We're all different here, we've changed, it was inevitable. But don't steal this chance for you to see who you can be, who you want to be."

"I want to be dead. Is that too much to ask for?"

He heard Steve inhale sharply. "Yes, yes, it is. I can't let you do this, not after everything you've endured to get to this point, you can't throw it away like it means nothing."

"I wasn't conscious for most of what I endured."

"Jesus- Bucky. I don’t understand how you feel, okay? I don’t but I do know what it's like for there to be a black abyss clouding your mind, and not being able to do anything about it. And I'm telling you, it will get better, you just need to get there pal. Don't let Hydra win twice, please don't give this to them," Steve begged, taking a few instinctive steps closer to him.

His grip on the gun tightened warningly. Don't approach me.

"The Valkyrie," he spat, "you mean the plane."

"Yeah," Steve agreed in a somewhat teary chuckle. “The one I plunged into the ice, that very one."

"You didn't want to make it out alive," he realised, the epiphany making his grip falter. "Why? You're Captain America."

"I was Steve Rogers before I became Captain America, I only wanted to follow you into battle and with you gone, the war was over for me. Schmidt was going to die, I'd have my revenge, and there wouldn't be an empty apartment waiting for me in Brooklyn. It seemed like an easy decision."

"You goddamn punk," Bucky growled, slamming the weapon and opening his eyes angrily. "Why would you- throw your life away like that? You were supposed to marry Carter. Not follow your dead friend into the future."

"Hey," Steve objected weakly. "Not-so-dead friend."

"I- I feel angry about it, I don't know why, but I do and I can't-" he stuttered, suddenly frustrated.

"Hey, maybe it's because you recognise how stupid it was to do, and because you know that Steve and I will be having words after this," Sam stated pointedly. "But he's right Barnes, this ain't the way to go. Not when you have so much to live for, so many people to live for."

"I have too much blood on these hands. It would be justice to end myself quietly," Bucky said in a low voice, eyes fixed on the table, gun sprawled beneath his loose hand, pressed against the surface.

"Bucky- you can't- I-"

"I'm not him Steve. Why can't you see it? I bear the same face, but nothing more. Allow him to die with dignity."

"Dear God…" Steve breathed from behind him, and there was a surge of determination in the charged atmosphere afterwards. "Jesus, why can't you see that I don't care? You're not him, and I'm not him, we've both changed. But that doesn't mean we kill ourselves, that means we deal with it how we- like we-"

"Steve breathe," Sam demanded, intense and serious. "If you don't then-"

"Then what Sam? He's trying to kill himself! I can't convin- what am I supposed to do, huh? How am I supposed to save a person I care about if he doesn't want to be saved?"

"You aren't supposed to save him Steve. You're in his corner, but you can't save him, that all on him. Why are you-"

"I can't lose him again!" Steve shouted, a devastating confession that seemed to knock the breath tight out of his lungs. Breathing heavy and thick, his lungs made a rickety noise, reverberating in the silence as Bucky thought:

_Asthma. Bad lungs. Can't breathe- can't breathe- can't- Steve!_

"I just found him again…and I can't let him go. Not when he's the only thing I have left." A sob wracked his voice, plummeting it into a whisper.

"Steve, come on man, you know that's not true, he-"

"You think I can look for my old neighbours and talk to them? You think I don't miss those who were alive a few years ago for me, but decades for you? I can't do anything. Not anymore...not like this. He's the only one left."

"I- I'm sorry," Bucky announced, eyes descending slowly, a saddened feeling burdening his chest. "I didn't know he was yours."

Sniffling, Steve said, "please Bucky, please don't do this. We can get through this together, memories or not. Don't let them win, please, don't let them get to us."

"I…I deserve this. All those people my hands have slain I…I need to be put down." The words had lost sound, they were mere murmurs now.

"You weren't in control of what you did, why can't you see that? Hydra brainwashed you, they forced you to do it, don't carry their sins on your shoulder," Steve beseeched.

"I still did it."

"I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…I should've found you- I should have looked but the mountains were so high and nobody thought you'd survive and you- you never told me about the serum so they didn't listen- didn't look for you but I told them to! I told Howard to get his pla-"

"Steve," Sam intervened harshly, "you need to breathe, you're working yourself up and-"

"And what Sam? And I'll freak out? Too late for that. I can't- _think_."

“Calm down,” Sam ordered, assertive and firm. Footsteps echoed harshly in the hollow room, as the Falcon approached Steve. “You freaking out isn’t helping him and it definitely isn’t helping you. You’ve got to keep it together just for a while longer man. Until we know for sure he isn’t going to do it.”

“And how are we supposed to know? How can we ensure that he doesn’t, Sam?”

“I’m working on it,” his friend murmured, clearly unsettled by the situation. “But you’ve got to keep your cool. We can’t risk anything.”

Steve sighed loudly, inhaling and exhaling a large gush of air, an attempt at calming down. He repeated the measure a couple of times before he could address the problematic presence in the room. It was no secret that he was the reason behind everyone’s anxiety and dejection. Hadn’t he stalled his death, then perhaps his blood would already be oozing onto the floor.

Granted, Steve and Sam would be greeted by a horrific sight but they’d recover quickly, after all, they were no strangers to the horror of wars. They both had some experience in combat, in the destruction of life and peace. The three of them consented to signing the papers. So, after the initial shock and misery, they would surely have recovered.

Humans were like that, they plummeted through the grounds of hell, falling through layers of heartbreak, desolation, and pain. But they always ascended, soared to the high life and recovered. The humans behind him were not exempt from that, only he was. He wasn’t a human, no, a machine, a weapon that could never reform. He was destined to succumb to his handlers and wreak more havoc. Something as unpredictable as him had to be put down. It was the right thing to do.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight Buck. Put the gun down and let’s think this through,” Steve demanded, beyond giving him a choice. He was on a mission now. A mission to save a relic from its inevitable demise.

“Give me one good reason why, and I will,” he countered, hand etching away from the weapon, knotting together. “Give me a reason to stay.”

“Fine,” Steve sighed, breath vibrating from the shake of his head. “Because you deserve to. Because after everything went to shit, you still managed to make it to here. You can get through this Bucky, don’t let Hydra win, not when you deserve so much more.”

Bucky thought about Steve, about his past and what that meant for the man out of his time. They were together, intimate, in a way which he didn’t know. Steve loved Bucky, was clinging onto the last piece of him left on this planet. Before going, maybe he should indulge in one good deed. He didn’t deserve it but Steve did. So, for Steve, he would live another day.

 “If I- if I try to mend myself and allow you to aid me through this, then if all fails, give me your word that you won’t ever come for me, regardless of my fate,” Bucky decided, voice thick with conviction.

He would try, he owed that much to the man desperate to keep him alive despite all the odds against them. But if things didn’t work out how he anticipated, then there was one thing left to do. Justice would be served, Steve Rogers will have had the chance to help, to assimilate the assassin back into humanity, and the weeping souls of the prior host would be finally laid to rest.

“I- I-” Steve muttered, clearly conflicted.

“That’s fine by us Barnes, we give you our word. We’re going to try to help you the best we can, and at the end if nothing works, then we will leave you alone. It’s your life, and we can’t dictate it,” Sam intervened decisively.

Steve made a noise of discontent, seemingly about to argue but he was silenced from where he was stood behind Bucky. Possible courtesy of the Falcon. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, taming his slightly accelerated heart, he pushed the chair back and stood on his two feet.

Leaving the gun on the table (a callous reminder of what was about to occur) he turned to look at the two ragged men for the first time since they had arrived. Steve was an undeniable mess, hair a chaotic mess, eyebags concealing his eyes, and lips chapped from worrying them so much. Sam was doing better, that was undeniable, but he could still see the strain this entire mission had had on him. The worry lines, the anxiety, and the exhaustion.

Perhaps he had made the right decision. Perhaps he hadn’t. All would reveal itself in due time. For now, he could only live an unpredictable life in a world still so foreign to him, with a familiar man possessing an unfamiliar face. He prayed sincerely that it worked out well.

“Let’s go then.”

If it didn’t, then he would terminate himself like he had planned. Nothing could stop his fate from arriving.

**Author's Note:**

> what a roller coaster, amirite?! I know, this is intense lol but hopefully you liked it nonetheless. I think it turned out okay! 
> 
> tumblr:  bountifulsilences   
> twitter:  AwestruckBuck 


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